


To Trust Somebody Else

by BardofEryn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Pampering, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sweet, Wingfic, Wings, preening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-31 04:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardofEryn/pseuds/BardofEryn
Summary: Aziraphale hates molting. Luckily for angels, molting only occurs once a year and for a merciful two weeks. Still, it's an annoyance, made doubly worse by being on Earth alone.Teens and up for swearing.





	To Trust Somebody Else

**Author's Note:**

> This occurs after the Not-pocalypse.

Aziraphale hated molting. Luckily for angels, molting only occurred once a year and for a merciful two weeks (as opposed to the several months it usually took large birds). Still, it was an annoyance, made doubly worse by being on Earth alone. He supposed he could have gone up to Heaven for “maintenance,” as they so delightfully called it, but he always got odd looks from the other angels. As a very professional and very cold angel, who looked like they were putting off their coffee break for this, carefully massaged off the sheaths around his pin feathers, he could hear the other angels talking about how he’d gone native, or how bad his wings looked, or how he’d gotten fat.

The last time he’d gone up to get his wings looked at was around the time Richard the Lionheart set off for Jerusalem. Now he just kept a stiff upper lip through it and occasionally went somewhere private to preen. It made a terrible mess in the shop with white feathers flying everywhere. Sometimes, it was so bad that he had to close. (The only thing decent about molting to his mind.) 

Worst of all, it _itched_. Most of the time, if he had an itch, he could open his wings in private, scratch it or put balm on it, and be done with it. Molting meant itching for two weeks straight and leaving feathers all over the place. The only thing you could do to make the itching stop was carefully go through individual feathers and see if they were ready to be unfurled. It was a nightmare.

Perhaps that’s why he’d invited Crowley over that afternoon. However uncomfortable he was, Crowley always seemed to find some way to make it better. Just listening to him talk about the planets was enough to make some of his discomfort go away. Now, as they sat drinking wine and chatting with each other, he could almost imagine he wasn’t molting.

Almost.

Crowley had abandoned his sunglasses on the arm of the sofa and was gleefully pouring himself another glass of Merlot. “Y’see the thing is, it’s so much easier to get humans to come up with things. They do a much better job than I’d ever do at coming up with awful stuff. Like... Like, _angel_,” he leaned forward, “you do not want to see Reddit.”

Having no idea what a Reddit was, he simply nodded. He was having a hard time focusing. An itch like crawling ants was beginning to build up along his left shoulder blade.

“I mean it! Jus’... Jus’ don’t. I know demons who don’t have the stomach for it.”

“Yes, well, you know how much I go onto the Inter-something.”

“Inter_net_. I still don’t know how that passed you by.” He smiled, fixed Aziraphale with a stare, and began rocking from side to side ever so slightly. It was the sort of hypnotic gaze that tempted mortals, but left Aziraphale wondering how much of him was still snake. “You can order food and have it show up at the door,” he said enticingly.

He quirked up the left side of his mouth. “We’ve gone back to servants then?” he asked as he subtly rubbed his shoulder against his chair.

“I... Uh...” He looked up at the ceiling. “Unh, yeah you could put it that way. Get paid about the same.” He stared at Aziraphale, who was now doing a half-decent impression of a samba against the back of his chair. “You’re... wigglier than usual.”

“No, I’m not!” he protested as he rubbed his back against his chair. “This is my normal amount of... movement.”

“Nah. Definitely wigglier,” Crowley said before taking another sip of wine. He leaned forward, squinting at him. “Are... Are you molting?”

He blushed. “I don’t see how that’s your concern.”

Crowley sat back and looked at him over his wine glass. “It’s my concern because you’re about to ruin that coat I cleaned up for you.”

Aziraphale came very close to swearing as he realized Crowley was right. His scratching against the chair’s decorative high bar was beginning to wear a hole in the shoulder of his coat. He miracled it away and sobered up.

“Oh, don’t stop now, angel! We were just starting to have a good time!” he said as Aziraphale stood up.

“You may stay if you wish,” he said, more brusquely than he meant to. “I have some personal business to attend to.”

“Because you’re molting!” he heard Crowley shout as he stomped off to the kitchenette. He groaned at the piles of feathers and flakes of sheaths he had already built up in every corner. He let his enormous, white wings loose. A long, secondary feather and a couple small, fluffy, covert feathers floated to the ground. He grimaced. Nearly all his feathers were pins at this point, creating a strange porcupine look that violently contrasted with his soft, bookish appearance. He felt along his left wing, trying to find the source of the itch.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, angel.”

He turned to see Crowley leaning against the door to the kitchenette, a look of frustrated pity on his face. It was the same sort of look you’d give a puppy that had managed to tangle itself up in its lead.

He turned his head away. “Go ahead. Laugh,” he murmured.

“S’that what you expect me to do?”

He flushed pink. “Why else would you come in here?”

He heard the grunt that came with Crowley forcing himself to sober up. Then, he felt a hand brush along his left wing. He flinched.

“Relax,” he said, his voice soft. “You’d think after six thousand years... Never mind. Where does it itch most?”

His brain was in a whirl from both Crowley asking that question and the unbearable itch. “The medium... pri-... no second-”

“Up, middle, bottom, left or right?”

“Upper left along the bone.”

He felt Crowley’s thin fingers feel around the area. “Makes sense,” he said after a moment. “Most of these are ready. Tell me if I’m hurting.”

“Crowley, you really don’t have to-” He let out a gasp of relief as his friend gently massaged his pin feather, flaking off the sheath. Tension that he didn’t realize he was holding in his wings vanished, making them droop a little.

A warm, gravelly sound almost like a chuckle escaped Crowley. “Just hold still. I’ll be quick.”

“You don’t have to be,” he said before he could think about it.

He could almost feel Crowley’s smile. “I will on the sheaths. Arranging the feathers may take a bit.” He gently massaged a few more sheaths, releasing brilliant white feathers from their straw-like containers one at a time. Aziraphale tried not to shudder with relief each time a sheath came off, but he couldn’t help but shake. It had been so long, even by angelic standards, since someone had done this for him. He couldn’t recall anyone ever being so kind and gentle about it.

He heard him tut as he massaged off another pin feather. “Seriously, angel, don’t your lot preen each other?”

“Well... Er... Yes.”

“Then how--?”

“B-Because I haven’t gone back.”

Crowley’s hand paused.

“I mean. I’ve been back to Heaven obviously. Monthly reports and everything. Just not for... Well...” He looked over his shoulder at Crowley. “Do demons preen each other?”

He looked up for a moment, his mouth twisted as he thought. “Eh... Sort of? It’s more like a game to see who can inflict the most damage while still having it count as preening.”

“That’s awful!”

He shrugged. “You get used to it. ‘Sides, it’s always fun when Hastur’s turn comes ‘round.” He massaged another sheath, a half-smile on his face. “I nearly gave him a bald spot once. He called me out just as I was about to get the last feather.”

Aziraphale gave him look like he’d just brandished a whip made of hellfire.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’m not gonna do that to _you_, angel,” he said. “What sort of monster do you think I am?”

He felt like pointing out that he was a demon and that he’d just talked about nearly plucking a colleague bald. Then he thought of his deft hands going away and how so much of his wing still felt like ants were crawling through it. “Never said you were,” he replied. “Er... A monster, I mean.”

He thought he heard Crowley whisper something. He’d even go so far as to say that the something was “I know, love.” But, just in case it wasn’t, he kept it to himself.

Fifteen minutes of gentle massaging later, Aziraphale began to get twitchy. His instincts, in as much as angels can have them, told him to lie down someplace comfortable. Somewhere where Crowley could reach his wings without straining.

“Whoa, angel!” he cried as Aziraphale flexed his wings. “Almost hit me in the face!”

He folded his wings in and turned to face Crowley. “We need to go somewhere else.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong?”

“No, yes... Just...” He sighed in frustration. “Follow me.” He stormed out of the room and began climbing the stairs. He knew Crowley would follow, out of curiosity if nothing else. When he reached the top of the stairs, he snapped his fingers. His stylish Victorian bedroom transformed into a something more closely resembling a traditional Japanese one, complete with tatami and a sleeping mat. He looked around, gave a little huff, and added some brightly colored silk pillows too. No use skimping on style when you had real magic at your disposal. He flopped down dramatically onto the sleeping mat and spread his wings so the tips touched each side of the room. 

Crowley appeared at the top of the steps. “Didn’t think you could walk that fast, an-”

He gave him a look that could have scorched ice.

“’Ey! Don’t get snippy with me,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m helping, remember?”

He sunk his head into the mat. “Yes. You’re right. Sorry.”

“S’alright just...” He pursed his lips, trying not to laugh.

“Just what?”

“Don’t get your feathers in a bunch.”

“Will you _please _just...”

“Yeah, alright.” He sat down next to his left wing. Most of where it connected to his back was unfurled, but the rest was still a mass of pins. “This might take awhile,” he said, as if Aziraphale were the one being inconvenienced.

He swallowed the tears that had suddenly built up in his throat. “It would be very kind of you if you were... to help.”

“Yeah, well... Just don’t go telling people about this,” he said as he got to work on another feather. “If it gets out that I preened an angel,” he made a swooping motion with his hand, “all my credibility gone.”

He smiled against the mat. He knew Crowley no longer cared about demonic credibility, but it was the way they’d been talking for six-thousand years. Besides, he half-suspected it was a joke. “I won’t tell a soul,” he said.

As Crowley went back to massaging his pin feathers, he rested his head on his hands, for once letting down all of his guards. He didn’t have to worry about Gabriel, or Armageddon, or even letting in just enough customers to pass as a bookshop. It was just him and Crowley and the feeling of feathers unfurling.

As the itchiness faded and he melted into the mat, his eyes closed.

When he opened them again, Crowley was sitting cross-legged in front of him, smiling. “I thought you didn’t sleep,” he said.

“I don’t.”

“You _do_.”

He rested his chin on his hands and looked up at him. “Crowley, I think I would know if I sleep or not, and I can tell you -”

“When was the last time I touched one of your feathers?”

“A few seconds ago.”

He laughed.

“What?” he asked, pushing himself up on his elbows. There was worry in his blue-grey eyes. “What did I say?”

It took a few moments for him to catch his breath long enough to say, “Angel, I finished up an hour ago.”

“Impossible!”

“Look and check if you don’t believe me!” he said, sitting back and gesturing at the window.

He pulled his right wing close and turned over onto his side. It was dark outside, except for the soft light of street lamps. “Oh.” His brow furrowed. “But how? I didn’t _ask_ to fall asleep.”

“It’s not really an asking thing,” he said, sobering up a little. “It just sorta... happens.”

“What do you mean ‘happens’?”

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. A little grin still played across his lips. “I dunno. You just relax and then,” he snapped his fingers, “you’re asleep.”

His eyes widened in terror. “Is there a way to make it stop?”

“I mean, we’re occult...”

“_Ethereal_.”

“...beings. I don’t think you have to unless you want to. Just do the same stuff you always do.”

“But I didn’t try to fall asleep just now.”

“Well -- and don’t quote me on this -- I think that may have been a side effect of not giving a fuck for the first time in 6,000 years.”

“That can’t be right.”

He raised an eyebrow at him. “The sleeping or having been wound tighter than a mousetrap for 6,000 years?”

“I... Er...” He felt terribly naked. It was like Crowley had massaged off a layer of defenses he hadn’t realized he had. “You know, I’m not quite... That is, I know that I’m... Well, _you _try having Gabriel as a supervisor.”

“Angel, I have Beelzebub on my tail,” he said. “And they’re likely to break your kneecaps as soon as look at you.”

Aziraphale was about to launch into a lecture on how there were worse pains than physical ones, but thought better of it. “_Regardless_,” he said, “I know that I’m ‘tightly wound.’ I just can’t figure out why I would unwind now.” 

“Because you trust me.” He fiddled with one of Aziraphale's long, white feathers, arranging it so it was just so. “Terrible decision, really,” he said. “Trusting a demon. Woulda thought you’d know better. I mean, it’s not like my lot are trustworthy be--” He was cut off by Aziraphale hugging him.

“Of course, I trust you, my dear,” he said, pulling his newly feathered wings around the both of them. He pulled back, his eyes wide. “Err... Was that too-?”

“No. I... Urgh... Mnh.” His cheeks were turning pink. “Sort of... nice actually.”

Aziraphale smiled softly at him and embraced him again.

Crowley relaxed into the hug. He rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You know,” he said, “I’m molting in about a month. If... I mean... Ngk... Err.. If there was ever a time to pluck me bald...”

“Of course, my dear,” he said. He held him tighter. “Consider it done.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know that mostly pins would signal a very sick bird. However, given the short molting period and the sheer amount of feathers, I figured there’d be a time when this happened for angels. 


End file.
